"How come?"
A smile touched her mouth as she watched his little head peek around the corner. Wasting no time, she reached the top and closed the dungeon door.
Heath's small nose wrinkled. "Whatcha doin' down there?"
Andi lifted one shoulder. "Just ... looking around."
"But it's the dungeon." He glanced around, then whispered behind a cupped hand,
"He
might be down there."
Lowering herself to his height, she narrowed her eyes. "He who?"
"Dragonhawk, lady. With his bloody sword."
"Ah, Dr. Monroe. I see young Heath has found you."
Andi turned to find Jameson crossing the hall. "Are you up for a spot of tea and porridge this morning, or would you prefer something cooked?"
God, how she wanted to confide in him. Better yet, how she'd love to tell Tristan de Barre about the very real spirit he had wafting around in his castle. With a smile, she nodded. "Porridge would be great, Jameson. I'll just run upstairs and change."
He took in her pajamas, shrugged, then made for the kitchen.
"I'll see you later, Dr. Monroe. Me grandmum is waitin'." Heath made a big production of crossing himself before he sped from the hall and out the front door.
Strange, Jameson hadn't even questioned why she'd been lurking about the dungeon in her jammies.
Well, all the better for now, she supposed. Not only did she have an incredible amount of real work to do involving the bones and armor in the bailey, but she had to gather the courage to ask Lord Dreadmoor if she could excavate his dungeon. She'd be meeting with him before having tea with Miss Kate, so if she was going to gather courage, she'd better do it fast.
Something was in that dungeon. And she wasn't leaving until she found out what.
Or, more likely,
who.
Damnation, how he wished the wench would hurry up. He'd nearly paced himself senseless waiting for her arrival to his solar. The lads had kept him busy the earlier part of the day, although he had snuck out a few times to watch her work. He must be truly witless. He'd made an attempt to stay away from her as much as possible. 'Twasn't an easy task. She bloody well fascinated him.
Jameson, damn his arse, had told him 'twas voyeurism, watching from his invisible state. So be it. It wasn't as if he could help it.
Something perplexed her, though, and by the saints, he wanted to know what it was. More than once he'd watched her look over her shoulder. And twice she'd talked aloud.
What do you want from me?
she'd asked under her breath. Hell. He'd almost answered. Until he realized it wasn't him she spoke to.
A light rap sounded against the oak door. Drawing a deep breath, he cleared his throat. "Aye. 'Tis open."
The door cracked and Andrea peeked her head inside. She smiled. "Hi. Can I come in?"
Saints, if she didn't stop smiling at him so, he would go mad. He muttered under his breath and made a show of shuffling illusionary papers on his desk. "Of course you can. You're late."
"Right." She slipped in, closed the door, and made her way to the chair facing him. She sat, eyes fixed on his.
Bloody bones, what a distraction. She wore a sleeveless tunic of sorts and a pair of those fetching modern hose. Good thing he'd positioned himself behind the desk, or she'd witness him bumble around like the fool he knew himself to be.
Where was his infamous willpower, anyway? He'd vowed not to have much doings with her, and yet for a solid week, he'd met with her nearly every night to discuss her work.
Liar. You meet with
her because you're passing fond of her.
"Tell me about the ghost who resides in your hall, Tristan," Andi said.
He almost toppled over in his seat. "I do not see where that has anything to do with what you've been hired for, Dr. Monroe."
"Oh."
Dolt.
"What I mean is there couldn't possibly be any information from those childish tales that would aid you in your excavation."
"I was just curious," she said. "I was lured to work in a medieval castle that's rumored to be haunted, and yet I wasn't told."
"Would you have still come?"
Andi laughed. "Of course I would have. I don't believe in ghosts."
Tristan squelched the urge to laugh himself. If only she knew. "I see."
She gave him one of those smiles again. "Now, about this ghost?"
Devil's toes, the wench had spirit. He wondered if she knew just how many ghosts she spoke of.
Better to not encourage her, though. "You are a professor of archaeology, am I correct?"
She paused before answering. "Yes, you know I am."
"Excellent. If I desire someone to oust the spirits from my home, I'll ring another, say, a paranormalist, who is more qualified."
Soft, hazel eyes narrowed as she leaned forward. "I'm more qualified than you could possibly imagine."
Tristan laughed. Damn, she grew bolder by the second. "What mean you?"
A flash of emotion crossed her features, a fleeting hesitation, a wavering of thought? Something, or someone, had terrified her. She warred with whatever it was, and damnation, he was determined to coerce it out of her.
He leaned back in his chair. "Does this have anything to do with your fright from your first night here?"
Averting her gaze, she sighed. "No. Everything's okay." Again, she set her eyes to his. "But I would like to know about Dragonhawk and his knights. You've yet to give me the full story."
Tristan rubbed his chin, searched her eyes. "Andrea, if something is amiss, you must tell me at once.
I will not allow a guest of Dreadmoor to feel threatened." He leaned toward her, careful to keep a safe distance away. "I can see it in your eyes, woman. What terrifies you so?"
Twice, her lips parted as though to speak. Lips he had a bloody difficult time not staring at. For a moment, he watched her wage a silent battle, brows furrowed, breathing becoming more rapid.
Finally, her teeth clamped against her lips and she shook her head.
"It's nothing. Really, Tristan. Just my imagination." She smiled. "You know. An old castle, filled with old, interesting tales. All of which I'd love to know about."
Stubborn wench. He returned her brave stare with one he knew revealed disbelief. She ignored the challenge and lifted her chin.
"The more you can tell me about the history, even if it's legend and lore, the more I can tell you about the poor soul wrapped around those oak roots in your bailey."
Saucy, stubborn wench.
If she wouldn't concede, he'd simply have to continue following her. The lads had all denied having anything to do with the mishap. Soon, he would get to the bottom of it. Another ghost, indeed.
Inclining his head, he rose and moved to the two large chairs near the hearth, where the fire he'd started earlier glowed with red embers. "Very well. Why don't you have a seat here? For I daresay this is quite a lengthy tale."
"Thanks." She moved to one of the chairs and sat down. "You have the most unusual accent. Where are you from? De Barre is French, isn't it? Yet, you don't sound French. What about Scottish? It definitely sounds like you have a little brogue thrown in."
Tristan frowned and moved to the chair opposite hers. "What has that got to do with your work?"
"Absolutely nothing. Are you from England?"
He saw her shake her head.
"I just can't seem to piece it together."
"You, my lady, are naught but a nosy wench." Tristan sighed. What would it hurt to tell her a few minor details of his life before, well, his unlife? She would never know the whole of it anyway.
Once she concluded her job she would be on her way, leaving him in peace.
"Well?"
Tristan cleared his throat. "I was indeed born in Scotland. My mother was a Highland lass, very bold of tongue and very lovely. Terrible character traits for a woman, I can assure you."
Memories assaulted him anew. His wee mother, hands on hips with her head thrown back, giving his father—who was three times her size—a devil of a tongue-lashing for muddying up her freshly laid rushes. He wouldn't have wanted her any other way but bold.
"And your father?" The curiousness in her voice edged with excitement as she leaned her chin on her fist and watched him closely.
He squelched the urge to squirm.
"Aye, my sire. He was born of a Scottish mother and a French-Norman sire." Gage de Barre had been a giant of a man, whose skill as a knight had been known in several countries. Damnation, he missed them so.
"Well, that explains it." Her voice had grown soft.
"What mean you?" Tristan said. He leaned forward, elbows resting on knees.
"It explains your unusual accent." She paused a moment, then continued. "I didn't think the term French-Norman, let alone sire, was used anymore."
Oy, Dreadmoor. Mayhap those modern slang terms Jason wanted to teach weren't such a bad thing after all. "Aye, well, 'tis just a family ... tradition, I suppose. Sort of a habit."
She nodded. "Forgive me, but you speak as though your parents are no longer living."
"They are not."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"Aye, 'twas a long time ago."
After a moment's silence, she spoke. "About the disappearance of the knights? I can't tell you how intrigued I am with it."
Tristan nodded. "No need to. 'Tis quite revealed by your incessant questions."
Her lips twitched. He found it immensely tolerable.
"Well, allow me to tell you the tale. 'Twas the year of our Lord, 1292. Lord Dreadmoor, who is rumored to have been quite a fierce sort, his squire, captain, and six of Dreadmoor's personal knights were on their way home from a cousin's wedding celebration. 'Tis said the lord was taken unawares and murdered. The others soon followed as—"
"As he only kept the castle guarded with a few men," she finished. "But even though that was a small number of men to sentry a castle, it's quite a number of men to have all disappeared without a trace. Quite a large number to kill off." She leaned forward and quirked a brow. "So, what happened to them? Why would anyone want an entire garrison killed, their bodies hidden?" Her brows furrowed. "Was it for money? No doubt Lord Dreadmoor had to have been quite wealthy."
Saints, he wanted to tell her more. He wanted to tell her everything. Yet he didn't. Couldn't, without her knowing his real identity. Couldn't let her know 'twas because he'd allowed his foster father's only son to be killed. Instead, he offered speculation. "Mayhap 'twas the castle itself? 'Tis a grand one."
She all but rolled her eyes. "If that were the case, a de Barre wouldn't still have ownership. No. It had to be something else." She slid out of her chair and skirted behind him, idled up next to the window. "What was so special about the knights? About the feared Dragonhawk himself? Did they hold a secret, I wonder?"
Tristan studied her as she stared out the window. Smoke all but rose from the top of her head as the wheels of her mind went round, trying to figure out the legend of Dreadmoor. Against his better judgment, he rose and came to stand a safe distance behind her. "Are you a detective as well, lady?"
She lifted a narrow shoulder and continued to stare out the window. Should he venture into asking her more personal questions? 'Twas absurd for him to want to know more, and yet he found himself wanting just that, bloody fool that he was. "And what of you, Andrea Kinley Monroe? From where do you hail?"
"Virginia."
Tristan grunted. "And what drew you to do the work you seem to love so?"
A soft laugh escaped her, and she turned to face him. "I've been fascinated by medieval history ever since I was a little kid, and I guess I never outgrew it."
Tristan's heart slammed against his ribs. At least, so it felt. Christ, the woman was beyond beautiful, and it took more strength than he'd conjured in centuries to keep from reaching out and touching her. Instead, he cleared his throat and gave a good cough. "Knights and dragons and the sort, no doubt?"
She nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."
Tristan, having lost all wits, moved closer. "Might you enlighten me on the nature of this knight? Is he someone you know?"
Softly arched brows pulled together in a mock frown. "This
really
has nothing to do with your find, now, does it?"
"An ancient hoard of medieval weapons. A legendary knight. One cannot be spoken of without the other, lady. They go hand in hand."
"You got me there," she said.
"Aye, I know. And I can feel your mirth from here, woman. Now make haste with your paltry tale, for I've not the patience nor the stomach to sit here all night with you."
Lying dolt.
He'd sit here all bloody century with her, truth be told. But he'd never let her know such drivel. "Now begin."
"Yes, sir. And no, I don't know him—only in my imagination, I guess. He's enormous—a giant," she said. "Very strong, probably from years of swinging a sword. To protect his lady's honor, you see."
Tristan scowled. Had she somehow met his uncle Killian? "Go on."
With the tip of her finger, she rubbed the steamed breath from the window. "He has long, dark hair, past his shoulders, and the most amazing pair of blue eyes. He's very strong and well over six foot and a half."
His uncle Killian was six foot and a half.
The bloody whoreson.
Tristan pulled his brows into a deep frown.
"He wears an armor of chain mail. It creaks when he moves. That fascinates me for some reason."
"Yes, well." He moved to his desk, resting a hip on its surface. "I suppose those are the imaginings of a foolish girl, eh?"
She ignored him. "Funny thing is, I've seen him before. In life."
Tristan's mood fouled, although he couldn't exactly fathom why. "Have you now? Where?" 'Twould be better to find out so he could at least haunt the buffoon. If he'd been alive and capable he'd soundly throttle the bloody idiot.
"I sort of saw him here, at Dreadmoor."
Tristan gulped.
"About twelve years ago."
He gulped again.
"At least I thought I had. At the kirk. I kind of snuck onto the grounds. He ... sort of saved me."